


Hearts at Home

by Greenspoons



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Smut, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 23:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12852138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenspoons/pseuds/Greenspoons
Summary: Frank finds out where he really belongs— with Karen.(AKA when everyone calls Frank out for being a hipster).





	Hearts at Home

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Kastle fic! 
> 
> Lemme know what you think

The keys in his hand unlock his front door, opening up to the space he now calls home. Frank had purchased this slice of real estate with the money from his considerable savings soon after he decided that he has to make a life for himself. And most importantly, it is within walking distance to Karen’s apartment.

Now, he works at a shooting range, where he still gets to hold a gun in his hands but as an instructor.

When she first hears that he is moving into her neighborhood, Karen had looked him in the eye, a silent question on her lips. With a frank look, he tells her that in case he has trouble integrating into society, he could knock on her door for pointers on doing just that. He recalls her suppressing a small, shy smile, and it is their first encounter after he takes on the name of Pete Castiglione.

Days passed, and one day he shows up on her door when he couldn’t figure out how to assemble the new IKEA furniture he’s bought. He finds out that two heads didn’t make it any easier to figure out but at least he has someone to share the frustration with.

Many times after that, he finds himself reflexively knocking on her door for any excuse he could find.  Like that time when he needs a second opinion on the best pizza in town because he finally had cable subscription and he wants someone to spend movie night with. Or that time when he looks for an agreement that the sound clarity of his brand-new Bose speaker set is just as advertised. 

Soon, he finds that Karen was increasingly spending more time at his place. It would always be something along the lines of having faulty plumbing in her house, noisy neighbors and deadlines to meet. Frank realizes then that he has been leading by example and Karen is merely taking a page out of his book.   

Every time she’s around, he has a pot of hand-brewed coffee on the ready. Especially when she has to pull an all-nighter to complete a story she's working on. At first, she didn't like it but when he brews a bag of beans that both of them hasn't tried before, she likes it more than she usually did. From then on, he makes it a point to only bring those Ethopian Yirgacheffe home. If she likes it fruity and floral, then so does he.

The first thing he sees when he shuts the door behind him is the cascade of blonde hair that falls across the end of a couch. His gaze follows the trail of cornsilk to Karen who is fast asleep on her side, one arm folded under her head. Her laptop is open on the carpet by the couch.  

He steps lightly into the open kitchen, overlooking the living room and the woman who is now the focal point of his vision. In his arms, he has a growler and a twelve-pack bottled beer which he unloads silently on the counter. He had gone all the way to Williamsburg for the beers he has just brought home which he intends to serve at tonight's party. 

His phone— in other words, it's touch screen and too damned delicate compared to what he's used to— rings, jolting Karen out of her nap as she glances around blearily. “Frank?”

“Yeah,” he answers her, then, “Go back to sleep. It’s just Curt.”

Karen smiles to herself sleepily. It has been a process, for the both of them and their relationship is in a much better, healthier place now. He didn’t see any need to label what  _this_  is and she doesn’t mind. 

On the other end of the line, Curt was going on about having new books for him at the old church.

"Your hipster ass won't touch these books with a ten-foot pole, I know," he says as Frank snorts into his phone.

“I’ll see you later at my housewarming party, Curt.”

The line clicks dead, but both men know that Frank would come by and grab those books. He has never been much of a reader but nowadays, he's content to just sit by Karen’s side as she works, the sound of her fingers tapping away on a story accompanying him as he reads.

She feels a weight pressing down on the couch as Frank rests his elbow next to her head. A strong, calloused hand cups the back of her head and then threads his fingers into her hair.

“I’ll be really grumpy tonight if you don’t let me get some shut-eye now,” she warns him, opening her eyes to pin him with a stern look.

“Not after this,” he says with certainty, leaning down to steal a kiss.

“Now let me sleep,” she lightly pushes him away with one hand on his chest.

His hand comes up to keep her hand on his chest in place, smirking slightly. “Yes, ma’am.” Before he stands to walk away, he drops a feather-light kiss on the crown of her head. 

“You’re much mushier than I give you credit for,” He hears her mutter as she burrows deeper into the supple leather cushion.

 ***

“Man, this is not happening,” David says loudly as he comes through the door with his wife and children. “You’re a freaking hipster.”

“I’m n—“ He retorts, the denial stilling on the tip of his tongue as he suddenly recalls denial of hipsterism as a sign of being one of them.

“Yes you are.” He insists, looking over to Sarah for affirmation. She nods with a chuckle. 

“How are you doing Pete?” Sarah asks as Leo and Zach surge forward to greet him. He envelops them in a hug.

Leo takes the hug as an opportunity to whisper in his ear. “I need training in this new FPS video game. My friends think they’ll beat me.”

“Sure, kid,” Frank says without missing a beat. He knows for a fact that David has told his family more than a little bit about his background and history. It doesn’t bother him, as long as no one knows the exact figure of his confirmed kills. With the exception of Karen, _of course_.  

“What’s it called?”

“Overwatch,” she tells him as he ruffles her brother’s hair and lets them both go. 

“Well,” he replies and she sees the flicker of something genuine and warm in his eyes. “I’m glad to see you have your family back, Sarah.”

“The beard’s gone. Thank God! But look at this place.” David gestures to the telltale hipster touch around the modest-sized apartment. Frank knows what he’s indicating at because Karen has taken it upon herself to tell him as much at every chance she gets.

Yes, there may be some hipster touch in the reclaimed wood dining table he found at a garage sale, the turntable by the window overlooking the street below, and the cold brew coffee maker in one corner of the kitchen but he most definitely still isn’t a hipster.  

***

“First time seeing you wear flannel, Frank,” Curt says as he answers the door for the second time that day. There would be more guests coming in and this wouldn’t be the last of his door answering duties.

Frank glares at him, annoyed. “It doesn’t matter anymore what I say to the contrary, does it?”

“Absolutely not,” he answers with a good-natured grin. “We all know it, but you’re just too arrogant to admit you are secretly hoping for Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods to open on the next block.” 

“I’ll haul your black ass out this door if the pies you’re so proud of doesn’t live up to my expectations.”   

“That’s no way to treat a brother,” Curt shakes his head, clapping Frank on the back. “But I guess you want that showdown for your tombstone.”

"You want it as badly as I do," he points out, following after him.

 *** 

“Madani,” Frank greets the recently-appointed Homeland Security chief when she shows up on his doorstep.

Her dark eyes glimmer with a familiarity that puts him at ease about the department’s new leadership. She has become to him more than an acquaintance in a high place, and they probably qualified as friends in a loose interpretation of it. Neither of them ever said it out loud but they had a hand in each other still being here after everything that had transpired.      

“Castiglione,” she returns the greeting, feeling how strange that name sounded when she utters it. She has seen his file when he was still known to the world at large as Frank Castle and knows that it is closer to his real identity that Castle. 

But Castle still sounds a lot more American and less of a mouthful. In a sense of the word, she could call him a patriot because as unconventional as it is, he has gone about defending an important American value.

“How are things?” Castle asks conversationally.

“As uneventful as can be expected, luckily,” she replies, then takes one proper look at him and raises her brows questioningly. “Are you going to start owning more suspenders than belts?”

“No. I’m not moving to Oregon or Montana to start a career as a lumberjack,” he says, stiffly.

“Huh,” she says to herself. “I must not have been the first to say that today.” 

***

 "Hi," Foggy greets him, warily at first. Then he reminds himself that today, the man is Frank Castle and not the Punisher who wants nothing mrer than see the streets run red with blood of bad men,

"Nelson," Frank nods, not quite friendly but not hostile either. "Where's the other guy, Murdoch?"

"Hopefully, he's missing," The ex-partner at Nelson&Murdoch admits, looking at him assessingly. "There's not much else we know." This time, his throat clenches with emotion and he looks away.

Frank doesn't really know what's going on, but he doesn't pry. "I'm sorry," he says, his sentiment heartfelt. Despite their differences, Frank has nothing but respect for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen who is probably the closest thing he would ever have to an ally. 

"Yeah, just hoping he comes back to us," He says quietly as he tries to look over the ex-Marines' shoulder but to no avail. "Where's Karen?"

"She's, uh, getting the table ready," Frank answers, stepping away so he could see it for himself.

"Looks like she's right where she wants to be," he remarks, catching the other man's gaze meaningfully. "I mean, with you and everything."

"If she's happy, then I am too, " Frank says gruffly, not really knowing how else to react to the statement.

"I just want what's best for her," he agrees, then shakes his head incredulously with a chuckle. Since when does Foggy Nelson agree with the Punisher? _Maybe this once._

They look at each other before clearing their throats awkwardly. But not before Foggy takes his parting shot, gesturing at Frank with disapproval. “This hipster thing definitely isn’t working out for you, man.”

 ***

It's a potluck-style housewarming party and everyone has turned up with a family recipe or two. The Lieberman family came with the sweet potato black bean enchiladas and chicken salad. On the other hand, the former Navy SARC took care of dessert with his grandma’s pecan and Boston cream pie. Foggy brought his mom’s loaded barbeque pork potato casserole which he claims to be the world’s greatest.

All the goodies are laid out on the table, along with beers for the adults and non-alcoholic orange slush punch for the Lieberman children. The latter was a drink from Karen's childhood, back when her mother would prepare it for the summer parties she used to throw at their home in Vermont. 

"I missed you," Karen makes her way to Foggy, enveloping him in a hug, "You and Marci still going strong?"

"Never better," he beams, hugging her back. "I miss you too, Karen," At this he pulls back slightly and gives her a look, eyes going soft with concern. "How are you doing?"

"Good, I guess," she meets his eyes and her expression lights up with a wide smile. "I mean, look at this," She gestures around her as her gaze momentarily settles on Frank who is talking very animatedly with the kids.

Foggy follows her gaze. "I don't know how you manage it Karen, but can't you see how scary he is when he goes all psychopathic-machine-gun-toting-vigilante?"

She shakes her head gently, "He's that but also so much more." Karen takes her friend's hand, reassuring him further. "I've gotten nothing but kindness, respect and understanding from him. He treats me well, Foggy."

"Can't really doubt a man who is everything you say, can I?" He squeezes her hand. "I want you to know that Frank's not the only one you have in your corner. We are your friends too and always here if you ever need us."

"I know," she says, nodding. "And that has absolutely nothing to do with me being your first client."

"I don't know," he shrugs, feigning ignorance. "Are you our first client? Cause I swear you were our first female client who's actually really pretty. You know, blonde, blue eyes with legs that stretch for miles." His eyes spark with playfulness and humor.

"We could have been a thing, you know," she chuckles softly as Foggy snorts, his mouthful of beer almost going down the wrong way. He shakes his head fervently because he's self-aware enough to know he's not her type. If there's one thing he's observed from hanging out too much with Matt, chicks always dig the guy who's intense, constantly brooding and has a traumatic past. "It's a very original line."

Somewhat surprisingly, the food Madani brought is a hit with everyone. Curt had been the first to help himself to it, apparently more familiar with Persian cuisine than the others. As the rest are clustering around the green stew and the accompanying traditional rice dish, he makes his way to the lady in question.

 "Curtis Hoyle," He holds out his hand. "I served with Frank for almost ten years."

 "Dinah Madani," she says, shaking his hand. "From what I hear, the two of you and Russo are close?"

"Not that close as it turns out," he shrugs. If she is as good as Frank says she is, she would already know what happened at his apartment with Bill and Frank.

Now when Dinah thinks of him, she still wonders about his laugh, warm and gentle. Or what he was thinking as he scrubbed away the blood that he'd spilled, rubbing her skin red and raw. The memory of him still lingers on the edges of her mind and she hates herself for it.

“I can imagine how that must feel,” They share a grimace as she takes a sip of beer.

“This is good,” Curtis says, over a mouthful of the food he was eating. “If memory serves, this is gor-may sob-something?”

“ _Ghormeh sabzi_ , _”_ she informs with a smile. “And the rice’s called _tadiq_.”

“You made it yourself?” he asks.

“God, no,” she shakes her head, smothering a little laugh and looking a tad embarrassed. “My mom made it.”

 ***

"How's our reformed big bad holding up?" Karen questions in his ear as she comes up from behind him, holding a half-eaten slice of pie on a paper plate.

Frank makes a face. "Is this all the people I know in a city of 8.5 million?" As soon as he says it aloud, he seemingly reconsiders the notion of himself as a friendly person. "Better not answer that." 

"If denial suits you, then," she trails away before tilting her head to look at him with all the brightness of her blue eyes. The way she looks at him now makes him feel like he's the luckiest man alive for having a second shot at living. Like r _eally_  living because he wants to and has a damn good reason for it. "It's a nice change from all that macho posturing you do, day after day." 

"Yeah?" He asks with interest, taking a swig of beer. "So, uh, me always getting you out of bad situations, guns blazing— that’s for show?" Incredulity colors his voice. 

He sees the answer in her expression, eyebrows slightly raised, a hint of challenge in her eyes as it meets his. But the slightly upturned edges of her mouth indicated that she knows there is nothing that he can’t save her from and a certain part of her doesn’t want to deny him of the conviction that these people had it coming for what they did to her, to other innocents.

So maybe, somewhere in her heart, she carries this darkness. The same thing she sees in the Punisher, the thing that draws her in when no one does. But more than that, she sees Frank Castle under the skull-emblazoned vest, the family man and incidental hero whose failings have made him all the more human. 

 ***

Leo and Zach have school tomorrow, so the Liebermans were the first to leave. Frank has been observing Curt and Madani throughout the party, so it isn’t unexpected that the two of them would leave together. As he watches them go, Frank already knows there is plenty he could tease his friend with during their next group therapy session. Foggy is the last to walk out through the door, hugging Karen tightly as he suggests that they should go on a double date soon.

“So, what have we got?” Karen asks when she closes the door behind Foggy and Frank comes up to her, wrapping an arm around her waist.

He surveys the housewarming gifts stacked on the solid pine sideboard beside the door and she does the same. “I’m guessing its some hipster shit they think I need.”

“Frank,” she says meaningfully, looking up at him. “Why do you hate being called a hipster so damn much?”

He shoots her a dark look and she stares right back at him. “I didn’t join the Marines only to be called a hipster when I come back.”

“Ah,” she says knowingly, “Just the good ol’ Marine thinking he’s superior to pretty much everyone.” She smirks, with a touch of coyness that gets him every goddamn time. "Care to show me what you're so good at?" Karen chuckles softly, her fingers skimming over the top of his jeans before halting on the buckle of his belt. 

“I’m not one to deny a lady what she wants,” he says, slowly backing her towards what he had in mind. She feels herself hitting the edge of the dining table. “You know, we should mark the occasion in our own way."

"Mmm hmmm," Karen nods, with a soft chuckle, pushing up on her toes to put her lips on his. 

"This table right here hasn't seen any action yet," he suggests slyly against her lips. 

"Your place, your rules," she whispers, pulling him deeper into the kiss with a hand around his neck to keep their faces flush. 

They break the kiss long enough for her to push herself up onto the table. He helps lift her up with an arm under her knees. She goes on to hook her legs around him, drawing him close. Frank takes off his shirt, discarding them on the floor behind him.  

Her fingers trace the particularly nasty scar on his right shoulder, dropping a kiss on it as her hands move further down. Frank's hands unzipped the zipper of her dress and once the garment is out of the way, his fingers unhooks her bra in one swift motion, 

She gasps against his lips as his rough, calloused fingers play with the pebbled tip of her breast, lightly pinching. Desire shoots through her body and she wants nothing more than to submit to his ministrations, but she perseveres. Karen reaches down to make quick work of his belt and pants, palming the length of him through his boxers.

"Damn it, Karen," he hisses, fumbling to get his boxers out of the way. He wants to feel himself in her hands and she doesn't disappoint. Karen starts off slow, teasing him, before she picks up her pace.   

Frank pulls away from their kiss, his lips making a trail of kisses along her jawline, down her throat, to her collarbone and eventually finds her nipples once again. She feels him, all teeth and tongue, the alternating sensations just arousing her even further. She arches into him, barely suppressing a needy moan. "Yes, Frank, yes."

Her mouth moves to his ear, flicking her tongue against his earlobe, nipping lightly at it. This, combined with the steady rhythm of her hand around his cock, makes her smirk at the way he was holding on to the edge of the table, white-knuckled.  His hips rocked, in tune to the pace of her hand.

"No underwear," he whispers in her ear. "Good." She feels his touch between her thighs, his fingers hooking into the soft, sweet flesh just so and she tries to hold back another gasp, biting down on her bottom lip.

A moment later, he drops down to his knees. Frank places her legs on his shoulders and his mouth delves deep into the slick folds. His tongue retraced the path his fingers had taken and he takes his time to lap at her clit. She crosses her legs at the back of his head, keeping him exactly where she wants him to be. Karen revels in the roughness of his stubble as it scratches her skin, heightening her senses even more than it already has.

"Frank," she calls his name, need making her voice taut with tension,

Right now, he is wound up as tight as her and as he licks his lips which is damp with her want, he feels his cock aching for that moment of release.

"Lie down on your back," he instructs. Karen complies, doing as she is told. 

As she lies down before him, looking every inch the vision that she is to him, he takes hold of both her legs and pulls her towards him so that her butt hangs slightly over the edge. 

Frank positions her legs over his shoulders, giving him a clear view of her glistening core. As their gazes lock onto each other across the expanse of her naked flesh, he holds her steady around her hips. 

Aligning himself at her center, he slowly slides into her. Once inside, he begins thrusting into her at a pace that increases with every movement of his hips, The table shakes as she feels her release creeping up on her before it pushes her over the edge.

She clenches her teeth, her hands reaching out from beside her to grip the sides of the table. Her cry of pleasure catches in the back of the throat but he has no doubt that she enjoys every second of the fucking. 

He continues pounding into her before he finally slams into her with a bang, feeling his own release gripping him. Frank pulls himself out of her and ends up making a trail of mess on her thighs and on the table.

Karen pries open her eyes to grin at him but too spent to do anything more than that. She simply remains lying on the table, her legs dangling off the sides. 

Frank sits on the table and bends over to plant kisses on her arm, her shoulder before ending it with a peck on her cheek. 

"Move in with me," he says and she hears the request in his words. 

She pretends to consider this for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. "Are you only asking me because I'm naked right now and you want to use this table for more than just eating?" 

"Karen, you know that couldn't be any further off the mark." He kisses her lips feelingly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

 "You already know what my answer would be," she says, pulling him back down to her for another kiss. 

"Just checking," he affirms, nodding.  

Label or no label, Karen is content. She doesn't remember the last time she had felt so emotionally and physically sated, and this man was the Punisher no less. 

All she wants to do now is to live in the moment. She hopes Frank does too.  

 


End file.
